Twist of Barbed Wire
by snowflake912
Summary: A Donna/Harvey ficlet written for the donna harvey comment fic-a-thon in response to the prompt: "so casually cruel in the name of being honest". Complete one-shot.


**Author's Note:** This is an angsty ficlet I wrote as part of the donna_harvey comment fic-a-thon in response to the prompt: "_so casually cruel in the name of being honest"_ from Taylor Swift's song _All Too Well_.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own them.

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**Twist of Barbed Wire**

"Burning the midnight oil?"

The question is louder than he plans for it to be. He doesn't properly account for the darkness and the way it sharpens all but his vision. He forgets to adjust for the lack of bustle. Then again, none of his plans seem to be falling into place lately. _The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray_, he muses and smiles to himself, feeling a twinge of remorse when she belatedly whips around at the sound of his voice, manicured hand pressed to her heart. He thinks it must be racing and stares at where her fingers sit against her left breast. She pulls back her hand, and he slowly lifts his gaze to hers.

She holds his stare in silence. There's something strangely intimate about the office after hours. Or maybe it's just her and the way her lips curl at the corners like she can taste a delicious secret. He studies her mouth at length as her dark gaze burns through him. He can hardly keep his thoughts straight. There's Macallan in his veins and Donna everywhere.

"Wrapping up a few things before I go on vacation," she says, and her words drag him back to the deserted office.

He hears the none-too-subtle reminder loud and clear. But what is she reminding him of? That she's going on _vacation_ for the first time in seven years. They don't do vacations. Or that she finally has a reason to go on vacation? Harvey hates him on principle. He also hates him in person. He doesn't care what she says; no one is _that nice_. Especially not someone Donna wants to be with. "Right," he murmurs and makes a heroic effort to hold the unspoken.

"Now that we know why I'm here…" she trails off and her dancing gaze takes in his leather jacket and white button-up shirt. She lingers on the collar of the gray t-shirt peeking from beneath his shirt. Her perusal ends at the top button of his dark blue jeans. She flicks her gaze back to his. "What are you doing back here so late?"

Words seem elusive for a few seconds. He has no idea why his heart is hammering in his chest like he's about to touch her. He blinks, and she's still at her desk. He's still a safe distance away, and her raised eyebrow tells him she's onto him. His mouth feels dry, empty, and it still tastes a little bit like Scottie and mistakes. "I forgot my keys."

She gives him another once over, but this time it's full of incredulity. "I've known you for eleven years, Harvey. You never forget your keys."

He frowns. "It happens," he says and is aware of how defensive he sounds. "I must have dropped them somewhere in my office," he reasons to take the edge off his words.

Her nod is more for herself than for him. She purses her lips. "You're distracted," she realizes.

He makes a sound akin to sarcastic laughter, and he _is_ momentarily distracted by how light from the sole lamp burning at her desk shimmies gleefully in her hair. "_I_ am perfectly fine. I just forgot my keys," he drawls, and the easy words ring thin and false.

Donna tilts her head and narrows her gaze on him. "And I'm Mother Teresa; it's nice to meet you Perfectly Fine," she retorts mockingly.

"Donna," he sighs.

"Harvey," she echoes breathily and spins her chair towards him. "You lost. It doesn't mean you failed. This might be the best thing that ever happened to you."

"Or the worst," he counters with a self-deprecating smile, and for a second he wonders what exactly they're talking about. He finds himself thinking about her mouth again and all the reasons why he can't – or _shouldn't_ because physically it's perfectly plausible – kiss her. He starts counting the culprits, and the list starts with Donna and him, Scottie and what's-his-face, life and work, love and lust. What it really comes down to is _Donna – and him_. There's too much alcohol in his blood. "I need to find my keys," he announces, and the abruptness of his words startles them both.

She gnaws her bottom lip thoughtfully and comes to her feet – three inch black pumps that play an active role in the dozen fantasies flashing through his mind. He really needs to get out of here. "I'll help," she offers with a smile that's all unassuming and Donna.

The thought of her in his office with no one around sends his heart tripping wildly over its own rhythm. It's unbearably hot. He's unbearably hot, and having her anywhere near him would incinerate what little self-control he has. "No, don't," he snaps and tries to curb the impulse to apologize at the surprised look she gives him. "Just stay here." He motions with his palm for her to stay put and starts walking towards his office.

She moves quicker than his thoughts and places herself in his path. He stops short of walking into her, but she's much too close. He can _smell_ her, a faint hint of jasmine and something sweet and woodsy. Later, he will think it's his undoing.

"Why?" she asks innocuously, but there's nothing innocent about the smolder in her eyes. She's all temptation and desire, and he convinces himself that she can somehow glean every impure thought he has.

He exhausts his last shred of resistance before taking one step in her direction and lowering his head to hers. There's nothing forceful about the kiss. His lips brush against hers in passing caresses once, twice, until she clasps his cheeks and his tongue sinks into her open mouth. He kisses her with melting hunger and engulfs her in his arms, counting the ridges down her spine with one hand and tangling his other fist in her hair. He pulls at everything – at his conscience because it's painfully silent, at her because he can't get close enough, at her hair because he can't control her. She takes love bites out of his bottom lip and soothes them with her tongue. She sucks his tongue into her mouth, and his body responds with urgency to the eroticism of the act.

As first kisses go, it's anything but short and sweet. It's almost like a fight, an abomination of pleasure and pain, agonizing guilt and deep-seated fear. And there's so much stark, brutalized need.

The elevator _ding_ is loud and unmistakable. They spring apart guiltily, and she looks everywhere but at him. He feels even more muddled than before, his senses heightened, his body on full alert. The night guard peeks into the office area, and Harvey raises his arm in recognition.

The older man squints at them, registers their presence and confusion, but then smiles kindly. "Goodnight Mister Specter, Miss Paulsen." He disappears and leaves a heavy breathlessness in his wake.

When he looks back at her, she's half-turned away from him, her lips rolled all the way in like she can erase the impression of his mouth, fingertips pressed to her forehead. His hand closes around her elbow, gently bringing her around. He scrutinizes her downcast eyes, but all he can think about is how much he _wants _her, this, but not the repercussions. And how this changes everything and nothing. When she finally finds the courage to meet his eyes with hers, he lays his hand over her chest where she had placed it earlier. She doesn't look down at it, but he can read the subtle shift in her expression. This is spinning out of control. "You weren't startled," he tells her, hand pressed against her heart. "You heard the elevator."

She doesn't deny it but doesn't acknowledge his silent question either. "Made you look," she taunts him on a breathy little whisper, and God there's very little he can do to resist this. His fingers flex against her, and her heart slams violently against his fingertips. Scottie is waiting for him in a bar. Donna is going on _vacation_. "Don't do this," she says quietly, but her body is begging him to do it.

"Do what?"

"You're drunk," she whispers. She must have tasted the scotch on his tongue, but he doesn't particularly care.

"Tipsy at worst," he argues and places his lips at the base of her throat. He doesn't move his hand from her breast, and she doesn't push him away. He traces delicate kisses up the column of her throat. Her fingers curl in the lapel of his jacket, nails digging into the soft black leather. Emboldened, his hand moves into full possession of her breast, and he sucks her earlobe into his mouth. She moans and finally, finally shoves him away. It's a feeble attempt. He nips her jaw and focuses on tasting as much of her as he can get his mouth on.

"Harvey, _don't_," she demands, but she's breathing in gasps and clinging to him.

His own short breaths raise gooseflesh along the elegant arch of her neck. Something tells him that this panting desire closely resembles dying. It's hard to remember why he shouldn't be doing this with Donna – especially not now when both their lives finally seem to be on track. She fits perfectly against him, and she tastes just right – a combination of warm herbal tea and indulgent chocolate. He wonders why he hasn't done this before. "You wantme to do this," he says and as the truth behind his own words registers in his booze-addled brain, he goes still. Her hands fall away on cue, and he pulls away. "You _want_ me to do this," he repeats. "You want me to ruin this. Why?" he asks.

Donna has this amazing ability to shut him out completely when she wants to. She does it now. She crosses her arms over her chest, and her gaze turns cool like coins on a dead man's eyes. He wants to hurl all his words at her but clenches his jaw instead. She looks over her shoulder into his office and then faces him with a bemused smirk. "You should leave," she suggests. "Your keys are on your desk." She throws a thumb over her shoulder to point at his desk.

"I know why you're doing this, Donna," he hisses, but he's not nearly as sure as he seems. She looks bored and impatient. "You're _so_ good at running away from what you need. What you want scares the hell out of you. You don't know _how _to take a chance."

Her face splits on a full beautiful smile, and she laughs, a slow melodic vibration that he desperately wants to feel against his chest. "This is rich," she muses sardonically. "Are we talking about you or me? I'm confused."

He meets her challenging stare with an angry glare. "I asked Scottie to stay," he says softly, and it feels like the lethal blow at the end of a long fight. Donna is as unshaken and uninterested as she was a minute ago. "This would never work. There's too much at stake." Whatever _this_ is starts and ends in the span of ten, drunken minutes. He belies the regret.

"Yes," she agrees stonily.

"It's the truth. I don't want to be the reason you don't go on vacations." And they both know this has nothing to do with vacations and everything to do with what's-his-face and Donna and Harvey. What their relationship is and what it could never be.

Her lips lift in a half-smile. "I know."

He nods and walks briskly into his office, takes his keys and shoves them into his pocket hard. "Have fun in Paris," he mutters, brushing past her.

He wishes there are doors to slam, but his exit is quiet as death.

**Fin.**

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**A/N:** Thanks for reading. Reviews are love xx


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